


Night Before Christmas

by Anonymous



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 09:44:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1300429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chance meeting in a bar, a drunken fight, an overdue apology - sometimes, Christmas miracles happen. (Post-WAR!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Before Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2011 TF2chan Secret Santa.

There was a bar near the base. There was a town too, three dozen decrepit mining shacks huddled around a dirt-paved road, a general store, and the bar. Most of them were empty; the town had been largely abandoned when the nearby gravel pits were turned into battlefields and civilian work dried up.

The bar was still open.

It had once had a name, but the desert wind had stolen it, sandblasted every fleck of paint from the bar’s façade as it came howling in from the New Mexican Badlands to carry off hats, to claw at jackets, shirts, and the pleated tartan of Demo’s kilt. It didn’t matter anyway; there was only the one bar in town, only the one town within a day’s drive of the base.

For two men with a craving for something other than moonshine cider, it had once been a safe place to set up carefully orchestrated accidental meetings; a haven where, as long as they paid up, nobody cared about the mismatching colours of their shirts—or their skin. Now it had become a place where the liquor was cheap enough and strong enough and served freely enough to almost make a man forget the painful memories still lingering there.

For one man, sick to the heart of his team-mates’ holiday cheer, it’d have to do.

“Och, ‘tis a dreich day!” Demo called out, managing the bar’s single wide step on the second try and nearly christening the doorframe with his half-empty bottle of scrumpy.

It wasn’t, though. Dry eyes, dry lips, the wet chalk at his core called out for craggy hills and highland mists and the bones of his ancestors under overcast skies. Here, the emerging stars were cold and pale, as distant as Scotland against the darkening sky, and the only one of them guiding was the sad glitter of tinsel over the bar’s open door. It was cheap alu-foil, bent out of shape and with a broken-off spine, and possibly Pyro had once tried to make it briefly, gloriously, shine, if the sooty licks were indication of attempted arson, but it had beaconed wiser men than him. On this holiest of nights, as a lost son looked for succour, the heavenly choir was quiet. Only the wind sang here, saw-edged. Not in joyous exultation—in lamentation, its sand-gritted voice wailing a dirge, a mournful coronach, playing the town’s broken windows like a thousand-bore bagpipe chanter.

It was a sound to break a man’s heart. Again.

Demo swilled and coughed at the burn. Thrice-distilled, in an earthenware jug because pewter corroded too fast, the scrumpy packed a punch like a thermite reaction. He clung to the door handle one-handed, and for a moment of nauseating vertigo it became his newest best friend. His only friend, now, only barely holding him up against that old foe, the bottle. But better old enemies than new, better new friends than the throbbing, twisting heartache Medic assured him was an alcohol-induced ulcer and he knew bloody well wasn’t.

“Damn ye,” he cursed under his breath as he tried to catch it and catch himself from falling over. _Damn_ _him_ , and damn himself, and damn this war, and damn it all. Tempers had flared too hot and burned out, a bright fiery rage leaving him hurting and hollow where once there had been—something. Something he hadn’t had, hadn’t felt, in a long time. Maybe never. Now that it was all over, his hands blood-stained no matter how hard he scrubbed, he felt as haunted as his sword.

So he’d had a drink, to fill up the emptiness inside, and when that hadn’t worked he’d gone in search of more drink, hoping to gulp down forgetfulness straight from a shot glass in this cheerless place where nobody knew his name. 

“Ah, pally!” he told the man behind the bar’s counter, a former gravel pit tour guide turned opportunistic enterpriser. “Ye’re a publican after me own pickled heart, open oan a Christmas Eve! Aye, was’ere ever a time fer drinking, it’s noo, and tae hell wi’ the wee bairn Jesus!”

The bartender just shrugged and held up a greasy glass for inspection. “Don’t thank _me_ ,” he said, wiping half-heartedly at an offending stain with a dishcloth that only made it worse. “I’d’ve closed up an hour ago if it wasn’t for your buddy.” The glass went under the counter and he cleaned off a spot with a snip of his apron before leaning on it. “Money’s money at Smissmas, but I’d’preciate if you took him off my hands. I never noticed when you were in here together, but he’s not all there upstairs, is he?”

The question caught Demo completely blindsided; he’d thought himself alone in the bar. But there actually was someone else there, a solitary figure slumped in the half-shadows at the end of the counter where even the dust-dimmed lights reflected by the back-bar mirror didn’t reach. Sitting low on a tall barstool, chin on his folded arms on the scuffed mahogany, he’d been staring intently at the small army of empty bottles lined up for inspection in front of him, led by their general, a single stale beer.

Noticing their stares he looked up now, slowly, under the rim of a blue M1 helmet.

Demo’s jaw dropped. “Ye?!”

“ _You!_ ” 

“Woah there, fellas!” The bartender raised his hands at the tone of their voices. “No idea what’s gotten into you, but no RED n’ BLU business in town! It’s on the books!”

“Aye, but this isnae business! It’s _pers’nal_.” Demo slammed his bottle of scrumpy down on the bar counter and didn’t miss. He’d had plenty of opportunities recently to practise aiming under the influence.

“You have some balls coming here, RED!” Soldier shouted, pushing his chair away from the counter and reaching for the entrenching tool leaned against it at his feet. “I can admire that. Too bad I’m gonna rip them off you and hang them up for baubles! And your guts for garlands too! It’ll be so goddamn festive the Medics’ll think Santa burst a brain aneurism and put them on the nice list!”

He held out his weapon menacingly, in a way that would’ve looked ridiculously like a beach turf challenge over somebody’s trampled sandcastle if not for the sharp glint of the shovel’s whetted blade. It seemed BLU had wised up after that last unfortunate incident and banned their employees from bringing weapons off-base, just like RED, but apparently no one had thought to confiscate the small collapsible spade even though it was easily capable of decapitating a man.

“Listen to ye talkin’ like ye’d even hae the strength tae lift a single baws a’ mine!” Demo shouted right back. His bomb suit would turn away a swing of Soldier’s shovel, but he’d been glad to get rid of the heavy weight and ingrained smell of gore and cordite. If he’d known it’d come to this, though, he’d worn it, not least for the blast-resistant groin plate and the sticky-note smiley to go with it. His verbal insults just weren’t the same. “And ye hae a bloody poor taste in Christmas decorations too!”

Soldier stepped closer. There was an ugly snarl on the part of his face visible under the helmet. “At least I’ve improved my taste in FRIENDS, you backstabbing Quisling!”

Each step he took rang out with the dull sound of metal, and it twisted something painfully hard inside Demo’s chest to see the Gunboats on his feet, worn proudly, pridefully, today like every other day since the war.

“At least I’m not the pansy prancin’ aroond wi’ fancy footwear like some hoorin’ tart ‘cause I wusn’t man enuff tae came doon close an’ fight proper, sword tae sword!” he spat, but the insult didn’t squash that sick feeling in the pit of his stomach every time he laid eye on those boots, a constant reminder of the number of times he’d died at the hands of the man who wore them.

“Nobody deserves these boots more than I do!” Soldier roared, stamping his feet for emphasis. “I EARNED them killing YOU, maggot! And I did a damn better job of it than you did!”

“Oh aye? ‘Cause I recall gettin’ ye more’n ye got me—”

“—because you only saw me coming half the times, cyclops!” The shovel came crashing down on the counter from Demo’s blind side, making him flinch and scoring a cheap point. It embedded its edge into the dry wood as easily as it would wet flesh and bone. “The thing about winners, you one-eyed TRAITOR, the thing about winners is,” Soldier drew a deep breath, “there can be only ONE! AND IT’S ME!”

“Hah, ye haen’t wan yet, BLU, ‘cause I’m still here! But those are fightin’ words alright.” They _were_ fighting words, and they were both of them too proud, too stubborn, stepped too far in blood to go back to what they’d once had. The only way forward was towards the inevitable bitter end, and better let that end come soon so that, either way, he might finally find some peace of mind.

“Well, noo’s yer chance!” Demo taunted, throwing out his empty hands in challenge. “Nae fancy weapons, nae respawn, ye an’ me right here tae there’s jes oan a’ us standin’! Ye wanted tae earn yer boots fer real? _See if ye can_.”

It was the Highlander pride talking, but he didn’t feel at all brave-hearted. In truth, he hoped in his heart of hearts that Soldier wouldn’t respond to the provocation, would show even just a spark of recognition of what they’d once had, the smallest a sign that their past friendship had meant anything at all to him. But Soldier showed no restraint. He swung a fist at Demo’s face before he’d even finished speaking, too fast to avoid, and the electric jolt when it connected was perversely familiar and welcome. This was passion and rage, all they’d had and all they had left, and the pain made it at the same time so real and so terrible.

Demo stood swaying for a moment, dizzy, disoriented. Soldier’s first punch hadn’t been hard, hadn’t had his heart in it, but it’d still slapped something loose inside him, something that rattled brokenly in his breath and stung in the eye that wasn’t there. The footing he was struggling to keep was all emotional and all too precarious.

“I trusted you!” Soldier roared, and maybe that first impact had cracked something in him too, the way his voice sounded. “Was that all our friendship was worth to you, a chunk of old iron?!”

“That’s me national heritage yer talkin’ shite aboot, ye uncultured yank!” Demo yelled back, feeding the rage so he wouldn’t have to feel the cold bite of the words, how they cut him deeper than the sharpened edge of Soldier’s shovel swung at head-height ever had. _This_ was pain, more than any ouroboros cycle of death-respawn-death turning on itself, eating itself up to keep living; those words _hurt_ —because they were true. At the command of some wee bint he’d made an enemy of his best friend. His _friend_. A blade, its brandished steel smoking with bloody execution, had sealed the devil’s deal, and all it had cost him was a full thirty pieces of silver.

“I had to,” he continued, faltering, failing to convince even himself and ashamed of realising it. “Ye would’a killed me tae hell withoot it! And me mum too; I’d never hae heard the end o’ it! It’s the sword a’ Scottish kings!”

“Hah!” Soldier scoffed, shaking his hand surreptitiously where he’d bruised it on Demo’s face. “With you twirling around in that Catholic schoolgirl uniform, I’d think it was the sword of Scottish QUEENS!”

That did what the fist hadn’t.

“It’s a bloody _kilt!”_ Demo screamed, that age-old Scottish battle cry, and tackled Soldier. The element of surprise got him in close where the shovel didn’t have range to swing and slammed Soldier back into the bar counter. His small army of bottles scattered at the collision, rolling off the battlefield to shatter against the floor.

“Cowards!” Soldier yelled after them, then tried to punch Demo’s teeth out through the back of his skull.

Demo ducked under his arm with practised ease and landed a brutal gut-punch instead, then followed it up with a hard right hook. It was a combination of finely-honed martial techniques that was guaranteed by the highest authority to lay a man right out—only Sniper’s drunken-boxing mail-order course had failed to take into account that the opponent at the time of that last flourish would in real life be bent over from the fist to his solar plexus and habitually wearing a three-pound steel helmet.

It also hadn’t bothered mentioning that the opponent might likewise have sent for a Mann Co. mail-order course and use the distraction caused by cradling a handful of bleeding knuckles to apply that one-letter session in drunken head-butting right where it counted.

“ _Urrrgh—_ ” Demo wheezed, teary-eyed and curling up. He never even saw the shovel coming for him.

There was an explosion of blinding pain as the flat of it connected, and a fall into darkness that seemed to go on for far too long. Then his face was against the floor, blood in his mouth. It took him a moment to comprehend what had happened, a moment longer to realise its significance. No dispenser, no respawn, another duel to the death, and he was the one who had lost, again, for the very last time.

The crying wind had gone quiet, for once holding its breath, and in the dead silence Demo heard clearly the metallic rasp of the entrenching tool’s tip dragged over the floorboards, murderous in its intent. The heavy _clunk clunk_ of the Gunboats approaching was a knell, like a dull bell tolling, and he knew well for whom and to where he was summoned.

“Fook ye and yer prissy boots,” he coughed, spitting blood, strangely elated that in this at least he wouldn’t fail his family; he’d die a true Highlander, bleeding, to the blade. “I hope they chafe yer bloody feet!”

As heroic last words went, though, these wouldn’t go down in history.

Soldier stopped. The was a moment of complete quietude, a breathless second before the shovel came down, hard, clattering across the floor where he threw it off to the side. Then a fist closed around the belted plaid across Demo’s chest, pulled him up as another arm wrapped around him, and suddenly Soldier was hugging him close and making sounds like muffled sobs into his shoulder.

“Christ, I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Tavish, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—!“

Demo blinked, dumbfounded. It took several deep breaths, holding them in like Sniper had taught him, to wrap his head around not being dead. It had seemed such a certainty only moments ago, and he’d never known Soldier to hesitate before a kill. He hadn’t been sure if Soldier was actually capable of traversing the emotional spectrum outside of _rage_ and _hunger_ , but even if the concept of _self-control_ was beyond him, _complete psychological breakdown_ was evidently well within his grasp.

“Shh, lad, shh,” Demo hushed, patting Soldier’s back awkwardly with the hand that wasn’t trapped between them by an embrace like the jaws of life. Even after all they’d been through it still cut his heart like swallowed glass to see his former friend brought so low. “What, did ye take yer Sniper’s mail-order course in drunken apology-makin’ too?” he joked weakly, but it fell entirely flat when he felt Soldier nod once into his shoulder. “Ye _did_?”

“For you!” Soldier howled. “It was all for you! This whole goddamned war! The boots! Calling me a civilian, leaving me—“

“What? Who told ye _that?_ ” Demo felt shock settle coldly in his gut at this revelation. No wonder they’d gone from lifelong friends to arch-enemies overnight; it seemed someone had known all along exactly which buttons to press, which bribes, which lies, to make them both dance to some unheard Hamelin tune. He stroked Soldier’s back and nudged him gently with his shoulder. “Come now, ye _know_ I wouldnae do that, on me honour as a Scotsman!”

“You killed me!” Soldier bawled, inconsolable.

“Aye, it’s me _job_. And ye returned th’ favour, didn’t ye?” The floor was unpleasantly drafty for a bare-legged man. Getting to his feet with half a bottle of scrumpy in his bloodstream and Soldier still holding on to him wasn’t easy, and it sure as hell wasn’t graceful, but he managed without knocking them both over.

“I’m sorry,” Soldier said again, quieter, his voice thick. He was leaning against Demo unsteadily. There had been quite a number of empty bottles, now that Demo came to think of it. Even after his scrumpy head start, even after the blow to his face that still had his ears ringing faintly, he was surprised to realise that between the two of them he was for once more sober. Well, less drunk.

An impatient cough got his attention. “So,” the bartender said, watching unimpressed from a safe distance, “are you two gonna leave _now?_ ”

Demo turned to give him a one-eyed glare; if a look could kill, not even the glue-gun-wielding hordes of hell could’ve put the man back together again. He couldn’t do more than that, though, not with his arms full of Soldier and one shoulder of his red t-shirt under the plaid all wet with tears.

Soldier didn’t look like he could go anywhere on his own right now, but bringing a BLU back to RED base would be a singularly poor idea, as bad as going to BLU base and deliver Soldier himself. Demo looked around the bar, but it completely lacked any furniture on which a man might comfortably rest. “Well, he cannae gae home like this, an’ I sure as hell cannae take him. Ye sold him those beers, nae doubt fer a profit. Dinnae ye hae som’ere he can stay an’ sober up?”

The bartender dared lean out across the safety barrier of the counter to give Demo a look. It conveyed with perfect exactitude and in eloquent detail just how popular that idea wasn’t. “What does this look like to you,” he asked deadpan, “a manger?”

Demo returned his look just as pokerfaced. “What it looks tae me, laddie, is a pub wi’ four fancy walls an’ a bloody roof on top. Such a shame if it were tae gae Guy Fawkes on ye, wouldnae it? Brings a tear tae me eye, the notion a’ losing such a fine establishment.” It was a bluff; RED wouldn’t look too kindly on his blowing up another bar, but the single advantage of having only one eye was that everyone else had twice the urge to blink. He won. “He’ll be oot afore t’morrow, on me word,” he added. “I hae it on good faith he’s never missed his 5 AM wakie call.”

“Well, all right. Since it’s Smissmas and all.” The bartender crossed his arms sourly. “You can put him in the backroom. I’m closing up now, if there’s nothing else you’ll be wanting to break; it’s only been you two in here all day anyway. Just lock up front when you leave. And any booze that’s missing tomorrow goes on your tab!”

“Aye,” Demo said. “Thanks. Yer a good man.”

The bartender shrugged again, apparently the extent of his body-language vocabulary. “Yeah, well, hate to see two friends falling out, and on Smissmas no less,” he said. “Bad for business.”

He threw the dirty apron on the counter and let himself out, and Demo half-steered, half-dragged Soldier to the back of the bar, past the stink of the men’s room, and through a door marked ‘private’.

The backroom was just that, a room at the back.

There was no ceiling bulb, but the smoke-coloured curtains over the cubbyhole window were too moth-eaten to keep out a distant glare of sodium streetlights from where the road passed through the town. A green-shaded banker’s lamp, dead and dark, stood on the floor, and scuffmarks revealed where a folding table had once been placed.

The small room had the cigar-cloyed atmosphere of a seedy gambling den and all the homely charm of a stripped-down prison cell.

The interior decor was completed this evening by a sheetless mattress against a wall where the bartender might turn in for a few on a quiet night; they only just hit it by chance when Soldier tripped over himself and dragged Demo down with him in a flailing mess of arms, legs, and heavy footwear.

“Bloody hell!” Demo rubbed his shin where Soldier had caught him hard with a foot, then grabbed the offending body part with both hands. “These things’re bloody dangerous! I need tae get them off of ye afore ye kill us _both_ wi’ them!”

Soldier stilled, slumping back against the wall. He seemed content to shut up for once and watch Demo pull off his boots.

The Gunboats were bulky and too damn heavy, with no buckles or bindings to help loosen them. After a couple of frustrating minutes Demo cursed and got down on his knees. The folded-back cuff of his kilt hose spared him a chill and a rug-burn abrasion, but the position was awkward and one of Soldier’s feet kept sliding forward between his legs while he worked to free the other.

Finally he found the trick of it, tugging the boot off one foot. His hands came away from it wet, and in the odd yellow light seeping in from outside he couldn’t tell what it was. The knitted sock worn under, a gift from BLU Sniper, was holed and soaked through with the same liquid warmth, and Demo peeled it back carefully to stare at Soldier’s naked foot held in his hands. The Gunboats didn’t chafe after all—they cut _deep_. There were dozens and dozens of gashes, old and new, where the twin metal reinforcements had gnawed through the skin to make every movement, every step, every rocket-jump kick-off and hard-impact landing pure, unbelievable agony.

And Soldier had worn the Gunboats every day since the war.

“I deserve these boots,” Soldier said again, a quiet echo of himself. “I _earned_ them.”

  _For killing me_ , Demo thought, and couldn’t speak for the way his throat tightened on the words. Only one made it through, a low hoarse whisper that nevertheless said it all.

“Jane…”

Soldier smiled. It was tiny and weary and tinged with sadness, entirely unfamiliar on his scarred face, but genuine, and Demo found himself returning it. He didn’t know what to say; it was all still too soon, too raw, they needed more time to sort this out. Soldier evidently thought so too; Demo caught the subtle change in his expression, the smile twisting into something more, just a second before the steel-toed boot between his legs stole up under his kilt.

“Fookin’ hell! That’s bloody cold, ye bastard!” he howled, jerking back.

“Just checking, private” Soldier said, keeping his voice too casual to sound innocent. His helmet also did nothing to conceal the shit-eating grin on his face.

Demo shook a loose fist at him. “I hae laid oot men bigger’n ye fer suggestin’ I’m nae true Scotsman!” he warned, but there was no real heat in it. It felt good to see the easy grin on Soldier’s face. “I’ll hae ye ken I can pass parade inspection any day.”

“Is that a challenge?” Soldier asked, and this time his voice wasn’t casual at all.

Demo coughed. His mouth had gone suddenly dry. “Let’s jes git this thing off ye first, alright?” he asked, flushed and embarrassed at himself. He wasn’t sure Soldier should be saying something like that, and he was damn well sure he shouldn’t react to it the way he did, but they were both drunk on alcohol and emotions, and it didn’t feel awkward at all when his hands closed around the remaining boot and lifted it into his lap.

“Yessir,” Soldier breathed, relaxing into his grip, and that too stirred something in him, this unconscious display of trust.

His fingertips found the instep first, just above the rivet-lined toe box. The shined brown leather was slick from buffing and boot-shine, warm after the cold shock of the steel, and silkily smooth. He let one hand trail higher, tracking the bony contours of Soldier’s ankle, slipping the other around to cradle the back of the metal-capped heel. They left fingerprints and faint greasy swirls in their wakes like subtle territorial markings. If Soldier noticed he didn’t complain, and it felt good, _right_ , to mark him, to mar the boots that had come between them, claiming back Soldier in secret, in this dark room, in ways no one would notice but them.

He could feel Soldier’s eyes on him, watching, and it made him ache with a strange, shameful, exhibitionistic thrill, made him long to lift up that foot and let his lips follow the trace of his fingers, taste the bitterness of polish and the iron tang of blood and the tiniest hint of salt from the gob of Soldier’s spit used to bring out the gleam of the leather. It shouldn’t be like this, dangerous, daring, to feel his way up Soldier’s calf and around the collar of the boot, like sneaking a hand under a shirt to tease open a bra or under a skirt just to tease. It didn’t help that Soldier stopped breathing for a second when the first finger crested the rim and touched his bare skin. The rest of them followed, and Soldier’s shaky exhale only stopped short of a gasp because he managed to catch himself. Demo took his time pulling off the boot and the sock, inch by inch, while Soldier’s other foot, now naked, brushed up between his legs again and under the edge of the kilt.

This time Demo didn’t jerk away. The foot came to rest on the inside of his thigh, half an inch short of where Demo very suddenly really didn’t, really did, want it to go.

“We fucked up good, didn’t we,” Soldier murmured, not so much a rhetorical question as a flat-out statement. “I really am sorry, Tavish.”

Demo rubbed his sore foot gently, cleaning away the crusted blood. “Yeah, well, I hurt ye too.”

“Yeah, you did. Got me good a few times,” Soldier chuckled. He unbuckled his uniform webbing and the pouched belt unhurriedly, opened his blue jacket to tap his chest lightly. “That goddamn sword! It even gave me a scar once, all through respawn.”

“It did?” Demo didn’t need to ask where, of all the places the Eyelander had hurt; the dark line across his own palm would always remind him of that first time. He’d never need it, though, the memory too vivid in his mind to fade like the scar eventually would—the ringing vibrations numbing his arms at the first impact, parrying a brutal counter from the entrenching tool more by luck than skill, the deafening clash of metal on metal as ancient Damascus steel met its tempered U.S. equivalent hard enough to carve a notch in the foible of the blade. The Eyelander had jerked in his two-handed grip, fighting for control and winning, and gone for Soldier’s throat. He had reacted without thinking, still too new at enmity, and missed the leather-wrapped ricasso above the crossbar when he tried to stop the motion. The sword had sliced open his hand and Soldier’s sternum both, mixing their blood like brothers as it killed so easily.

It was easier still to reach out now, sliding his hands up under Soldier’s shirt to where he knew the scar would be. It was. It was a shock to feel it, ugly and knotted like some demented surgeon’s cicatrice. The blunt tip of the Eyelander had parted the softness at Soldier’s core, deflowered the deep red rosebud of his heart with that first forceful thrust, and the raised wound-welt screamed to Demo’s questioning fingertips of violence and violation.

He rubbed the scar, read the lingering whispers of ghost-pain in the Braille-dots of keloid. Soldier didn’t silence himself this time, trailing off into a soft sound just like the hiss of air through punctured lungs, and Demo couldn’t stop touching and touch wasn’t _enough_. He didn’t want to let go, instead grabbed the hem of Soldier’s grubby t-shirt between his teeth and pulled himself up against Soldier’s chest, the shirt with him, until his own hot breath tickled the small hairs on the back of his hands and he could satisfy that sudden desperate need to see with his own eye.

A rough-red crescent marked the point of penetration. It looked like a smile, a Chesire-cat’s crooked grin, like the joke had been on both of them and this thin lipstick-smudge from a cold-steeled Judas-kiss its ultimate ironic pun. He covered it with his fingers, and then, before he knew it, with his mouth, brushing his lips across the ragged flesh and tasting salt and desert sand.

“Tavish,” Soldier said, and the way he said it said so much more.

It was like the strange intimacy of the kill, and not, warm and wet with spit, not blood, as he licked the skin and scar with slow strokes of his tongue. It must have tickled too; Soldier’s gasps were half laughs, half moans, like he couldn’t decide whether this was too damn funny or deliciously, maddeningly sensuous and settled for both.

Prompted by Demo’s unrestraint, Soldier’s hands crept up his back. One of them paused on Demo’s plaided shoulder, hesitating briefly at the transition from scratchy dark wool to smooth dark skin before crossing the line. More than one line. They were calloused, rough, a man’s hand, a killer’s, and their unfamiliar gentleness made Demo shiver. Strong fingers buried themselves in the short black curls at the nape of his neck, turning a chokehold into a caress that made him arch his back. He didn’t want to break the contact between his lips and Soldier’s skin, but a soft tug urged him up until they were finally face to face, chest to chest, two warm bodies on a bed. Demo could feel Soldier’s heartbeat through their shirts, uncoloured by the feeble light, grey against grey there in the shadows but still separating them.

Slowly, his hesitation begging permission, Demo reached for the helmet, and Soldier didn’t protest. Demo caressed the sharp edge briefly with the tip of a finger before gripping it firmly, feeling the weight of it. This was his best friend whom he had fought, then fought the police with, then fought a war against, killed and killed and killed until not even the innermost parts of Soldier’s body held any mystery anymore, but slowly lifting that helmet off for the first time still felt like the most intimate moment he had ever shared with another person.

It felt like taking a virginity, like exposing a vulnerability, like baring a throat or a back to a blade, total surrender and complete trust, strange and raw and real, and it left them both breathless and trembling against each other.

He put the helmet down carefully, then looked up into Soldier’s eyes for the first time since before the war. They were bright and blue, just like he remembered, but the deep lines of pain and grief carved around them were new. Demo smoothed them with a broad thumb, wanting nothing more than to erase them, to stop Soldier hurting. It felt right to follow that impulse and wrap himself around his friend, protecting Soldier’s soft spots with his own body.

They were so close, closer even than the brutal intimacy of hand-to-hand combat, and without his bomb suit, with both their shirts and his belted plaid hitched up between them, Demo could feel every breath his friend took. It seemed to him like the most natural thing to lean in until they were sharing that breath too, the string of his eye-patch leaving a red line across Soldier’s forehead, close enough that he’d swear he could feel the ghostly touch of Soldier’s lips on his own.

He could certainly feel another part of Soldier’s anatomy responding to his proximity.

This wasn’t romantic, not in the way he usually thought of the word, and it wasn’t sexy like those back-and-forth flirtatious games he sometimes played with women he’d pick up. This was at the same time less and so much more than that. Their friendship had always had an undeniably physical aspect; they had brawled on the battlefield and off even before the war, shoving, nudging, had once spent a night in Vegas sprawled over each other, too drunk to care, on a floor that felt like it was slowly spinning. Even fighting for real, there had been a certain exhilaration at the sheer physicality of it, a burning adrenalin rush as they went toe to toe, evenly matched, then a heady wash of endorphins after, regardless of who won. This felt like fighting too, not for their lives but for something else, something much more important, and neither of them had ever backed down from a battle.

Soldier kept one hand at the back of Demo’s head, curling his fingers slowly through the thick dark hair, and the other grabbed a handful of red cotton and tartan wool to use as leverage and wordlessly prompt Demo to move. He did, haltingly at first until he found a slow, steady rhythm, rolling their hips together and feeling Soldier’s hands clutch at him when he got it just right.

It wasn’t sex. If it was, it was the most _clothed_ sex Demo had ever had, and it didn’t feel like the mad race for the finish he’d come to associate with the end of a successful night on the town. Women liked him to take control, be in charge. _This_ was all about giving up control, about trust. About feeling the joy of their shared closeness after so long apart. It was an aspect of their friendship they’d never explored, but it felt so natural now that Demo had to wonder at the easiness of it, the complete lack of the awkwardness he always felt with new lovers.

But then Soldier wasn’t his lover, even now. Or maybe they’d been lovers for a long time without realising it.

“Tavish—“ Soldier gasped.  He turned his head, dragged the rough rasp of his stubbled cheek down Demo’s jawline to moan softly into his ear, a _please_ in his voice that he’d never utter in words. “Goddamnit, I need—can I just—“

The naked need in his voice made Demo so hard it almost hurt. He raised himself onto his knees so Soldier could get a hand in between them and unzip his fatigue pants, pulling them down just enough and then as an afterthought lifting up Demo’s kilt just enough too.

The new touch of skin on skin was burning hot, temptingly forbidden, and it sure as hell felt like sex this time when Soldier rolled his hips. Demo gripped him tightly, his head lolling forward against Soldier’s cheek when Soldier slid them against each other, using his own cut length to tease back Demo’s foreskin and touch those heads together too.

They rocked against each other, held each other, sharing a visceral pleasure, a tender pledge. This was _theirs,_ this moment, too private for words, their gasps and moans and mutual touches saying everything that needed be said.

Soldier arched his back, thrusting up against Demo, and Demo shifted to accommodate him, affording him the muscular expanse of his stomach under the kilt. The tickle of curly black hair intertwining with wiry brown against the most sensitive part of him was a novel experience, as was the heat and the friction when his own cock slipped lower and found a narrow space between Soldier’s thighs. It was so different from anything he’d tried before to fuck that tight gap, the softness of Soldier’s balls brushing against the base of him, and still so, so good.

“ _Jane,_ ” he groaned, said it again and again, _jane, jane, jane,_ in time with his thrusts, because he wanted Soldier to know that this was all for him, that he felt this too, wanted this too, an apology and a promise and a plea all wrapped up in that one name.

“Tavish,” Soldier ground out in return, a gasp turned a hiss on the last syllable. “Yeah, Tavish, yeah, that’s it, that’s it right there, god, I’m gonna come—“

“Aye, me too,” Demo breathed, and maybe that should’ve been their clue to pull apart but they didn’t, couldn’t.

Demo felt Soldier go tense, hugging him close, and then there was warmth wet against him again, not spit and not blood, and he found he didn’t care at all. He grabbed Soldier’s thighs in his broad hands, squeezed them together under him and bucked into the sweat-slick crack between them, and then he was coming too, Soldier rubbing his back in lazy circles as he cried out through clenched teeth and made a mess of Soldier’s fatigues.

He slumped against Soldier, his head on his shoulder, Soldier’s arms around him, and for a long, long moment neither of them spoke.

“I missed you, Tavish,” Soldier said eventually, when his ragged gasps had evened out to slow, deep breaths. “So damn much.”

And was there really anything else left to say, now? “Missed ye too, Jane.”

Another moment of comfortable silence followed. Then Soldier sighed and shifted, touching a finger gently to the dark bruise in the shape of half a shovel blade across Demo’s cheek. It still hurt like hell, but not so much as it had, dulled in the hazy aftermath of an intense orgasm.

“I don’t want to kill you again.”

“Ye’ll have tae do it, Jane, it’s yer job too,” Demo pointed out, reaching up to curl their fingers together against his cheek and enjoying the scratching of trigger-calloused fingertips through his stubble. “But that’s nae meanin’ we cannae hae this _also._ We jes’ have tae be _stealthy_ aboot it, ye ken, keep it doon under RED’s an’ BLU’s radar.” He pressed a gentle kiss to Soldier’s neck, just because he could, then smiled rebelliously against the pale skin there. “They may contractually bind us tae takin’ each others’ lives, but they’ll never take oor friendship!”

“Damn right!” Soldier roared, then went quiet again, sending him a sly glance. “So… do you still have your panties in a bunch about me winning the war?”

“I’m nae _wearing_ panties, ye twit,” Demo snorted, and damned if it didn’t make something flip-flop pleasantly in his chest to see Soldier grin again out the corner of his eye. “But nae. I’m feelin’ forgivin’, in the spirit of Christmas an’ all.”

“ _Smissmas,”_ Soldier corrected, stressing the pronunciation. “The miracle birth of God-given consumerism!” He caught the look of confused disbelief on Demo’s face and drew back, feigning shock. “What, are you a godless communist as well as RED?! Christ, Tavish, it’s in the damn Bible! With this season of senseless shopping we celebrate three wise men from the East Coast inventing GIFTS, the giving of! It’s about all-American family values! Like money! And feuding! And pretending to smile delightedly when unwrapping some stupid kid’s home-made clay ashtray and useless gewgaws from your granny!” He counted them off on his fingers, then punched the mattress for emphasis. “Frankincense! Myrrh! What practical use would that hippie bullshit be to a growing first-century family of three?! I guarantee you that weren’t on anybody’s fragging wish list, but they got it ANYWAY, and THAT’S THE GODDAMNED SPIRIT OF SMISSMAS!”

Demo rolled his eye. “Aye, an’ tae think all these years th’ old C o’ E got it wrong, eh?” he grinned. Soldier’s passion was infectious and he was feeling far too good right now, pressed this close against his friend’s warm body, to start an argument about the American understanding of Christmas. “Well, in that case, Jane, I think I might hae a present for ye too.”

“You do?” Soldier looked down dubiously at Demo’s state of undress, obviously wondering where he’d stash a wrapped box big enough to hold anything of interest, like deep-fried ribs or a hat. “What is it? Was it expensive?”

“Oh, aye,” Demo said slowly. “Almost cost me th’ best thing I ever had.”

“That is acceptable,” Soldier conceded. “Give it here then! That’s an order!” The command was a parade-ground bark, sharp and demanding, but there was that glint in his eyes again, the one he’d had so often before the war. He was insane, no doubt about it, on the battlefield and off, but sometimes Demo had to wonder how much of it was genuine mental pathology and how much was just Soldier having too much damn fun to want to conform to anyone’s expectations, least of all society’s.

And Demo laughed, his spirit uplifted in a way no amount of holiday cheer had ever managed. Soldier was _right_ , damnit! Nobody ever got given what they wanted, did they, even when they toed the line and put themselves on the nice list. All his life he’d tried to do what’d been expected of him, what his proud Scottish heritage demanded, what his parents wished, what his employers ordered, and he’d never felt better for any of it, had never felt truly happy at all—until he met this crazy BLU Soldier. Until now, in this stolen moment, pressed half-naked against his best friend, exposed and unguarded, feeling he could take on the whole world like this and win with him by his side.

And maybe that was the true meaning of Christmas after all, to stop caring about money and family fights and just get his own damn gifts. He caught Soldier’s too-blue eyes with his own single brown, smearing the stickiness between them when he lifted a hand to brush the thumb softly over Soldier’s lips before leaning in.

“Merry Christmas, Jane,” he murmured, close enough to feel Soldier’s smile twist into that challenging grin again, and he held out for as long as he could, heart beating faster than during any Sudden-Death stand-off, until one of them, or both, finally surrendered and closed that last tiny sliver of distance between them.


End file.
